There is a specific kind of exhaustion that only comes from love.
Not the sharp, crisis-driven adrenaline we used to mistake for devotion.
Not the white-knuckle fear of losing something fragile.
But the soft, bone-deep tiredness of showing up every day.
At 3:12 a.m. when Eleanor decides sleep is optional.
At 6:40 a.m. when Zara forgets her portfolio and blames the universe.
At 9:00 a.m. when a foundation director needs a decision about budget allocation in São Paulo.
At 11:15 a.m. when my graduate students want to argue about Eliot’s moral architecture.
Love that is steady.
Unflashy.
Repetitive.
Real.
I didn’t know that was what we were building.
But here we are.
Eleanor is four months old when the first real test of our new life arrives.
Not biological.
Not scandal-related
